This Septum Piercing Is for You, Mom

If I'm partaking in some sort of belated rebellion—the most visible of which is a collection of nine diminutive piercings and a small tattoo—it's probably because I spent my teenage years terrified of disappointing my conservative, church-going parents.

A month ago, when meeting my mother for brunch, I divulged that I'd been thinking about getting my septum pierced. "What's that?" she asked with palpable concern. When I gestured toward the small piece of cartilage between my nostrils, she promptly burst into tears. To placate the wails of "WHY would you DO that to your FACE," I hastily promised that I wouldn't. But three weeks later, I found myself at the studio of friend and expert piercer J. Colby Smith, and walked out sporting a dainty hoop at the tip of my nose. The initial pang of guilt I felt was immediately replaced by a sense of exhilaration for having directly disobeyed her. I recall a similar sensation when, as a college freshman, I had third holes put in my earlobes without her consent; and again, last August, when a tattoo artist drilled ink into my ribs.

For the record, I am a fairly responsible, self-supported twenty-something who, all things considered, has her shit together. If I'm partaking in some sort of belated rebellion—the most visible of which is a collection of nine diminutive piercings and a small tattoo—it's probably because I spent my teenage years in suburban New Jersey falling in line. My parents were extremely strict, and unlike others who rage against the machine, I was simply too afraid to disobey. So I stuck to our hierarchical family curriculum: church; family; school; music; sports; social life. In that order. I only deviated for a handful of house parties and always returned in time for curfew, terrified that I stunk of Natty Light. Growing up I was advised on everything from when I could get my ears pierced, to what kinds of earrings I was allowed to wear, to the exact occasions when it was permissible to wear make-up. My first and only "joy ride" was to the gas station down the street.

But though the apron strings have long since been cut, I suppose I'm just discovering the thrill of doing something for myself, because I, and I alone, want to do it. No matter what "rebellion" means on an individual level, everyone should know what it's like to challenge what they've always known as the norm.

What's more, I'm still slightly disoriented by the freedom I have as a young adult. I spent 18 years of my life making decisions with an asterisk: But is this allowed? Just how much trouble could I get in for this? I haven't quite adjusted to a world in which getting grounded is finally off the table: tinkering with my appearance, without any real consequence, still feels deliciously dangerous. And it's kind of addicting. I left Colby's studio wondering how I could out-edge myself the next time. A tattooed sleeve? Silvery-platinum hair? The limit, as Cady Heron so wisely put it, does not exist.

In the end, when Mom found out that I had gone against my word and pierced my nose, she was mad. So mad, in fact, that for a few hours, I felt like the teenager who just got caught with a beer in her hand (or, in my case, with a B on her report card). As we engaged in a phone "discussion" that more closely resembled an angsty blowout, I even thought perhaps I'd made a mistake. Thankfully, my sister—who is five years older than me and on her way to a Ph.D in clinical psychology—put me in check: "Maybe you aren't really ready to do something and not care what she thinks," she said. The way she sees it, I have two choices: "Either you are going to keep the piercing and brush off her negative reaction, or you found out you do care a lot, and get rid of it."

It's an obvious fork in the road, of course, but an intersection where I've idled more than a few times. Something tells me I'll take the road less traveled. Sorry, Mom.

Victoria Dawson HoffAssociate EditorVictoria Hoff is the associate editor at ELLE.com, covering everything from fashion to beauty to wellness.

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